


The One with Skip Westcott

by mbm2860695



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ned Leeds is an awesome friend, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Poor Peter Parker, Skip was an ass
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbm2860695/pseuds/mbm2860695
Summary: Peter has demons, and when his friends find out one by one, they become a support system Peter desperately needs. Basically just a bit of angst and Peter's friends being awesome.





	1. Ned Leeds

**Author's Note:**

> This does include mentions of past sexual assault, but nothing graphic, however, if this is a trigger for you, do not read! All my love for anyone who has survived sexual abuse, and the people who support them.

Peter is laughing, his mouth wide open.

“Hey! Throw me another one!” He cries, warm eyes sparkling. Ned winds up, and with a quick flick of his wrist tosses the piece of popcorn through the air. However, rather than landing in Peter’s mouth like the fifty times before, it seems to arch just a little too high, and with a quick leap, Peter was on the ceiling and upside down, crunching happily at the little white puff. 

“Oh my god!” Ned gushes, “Oh, that was great, that was the best thing I’ve ever seen!” Ned held up his phone, “Imagine if we could get you doing that in your suit, it would be all over Twitter in like .2 seconds!” Peter pushes himself off the ceiling, flipping around so that he bounces onto the couch cushion. 

He acts like he is contemplating the idea, “Hmmm, yeah, can’t help but think that is one of the things Mr. Stark would expressly tell me  _ not  _ to do,” Peter gasps, still chuckling. He hasn’t laughed this hard in too long, and his ribs are still aching from patrol last night, because apparently, spider teens and sledge hammers don’t mix. 

He smooths his left hand down his side, reaching with his right hand into the bowl of popcorn to grab a giant handful before shoving it into his mouth. Ned shakes his head, “I still can’t get over how much you frickin eat, man. If I ate like that, I’d be like...I don’t know, at  _ least  _ 30 pounds heavier in like...a week!” 

Peter nudges Ned, rolling his eyes, “Yeah, it’s great until I forget to eat breakfast and pass out in the bathroom before second period.” 

“I thought Mr. Stark made you those protein or energy bars or something?” Ned asks, nibbling on a piece of popcorn, his head tilted to the side. He scratches his leg, eyes on Peter.

Peter makes a face, tongue out the side of his mouth, “Oh, he did. They just taste like literal rotten egg, blegh.”

Ned shrugs, “Well, anything with 3,000 calories and like five hundred grams of protein is bound to taste pretty nasty. Oh!” Ned lights up, “Can you ask him to make you some in donut form?” He eyes go soft, and he smiles a dopey smile, “I love donuts.” 

Peter can’t help but smile at his best friend, popping another piece of popcorn in his mouth, “Not sure donuts are the most economical form but I’ll run it by him, see what he thinks.”  _ Not _ , Mr. Stark would throw a fit if Peter brought up protein donuts, and would probably lock Peter out of the lab for at least a week. 

“Good. Now, are we going to watch the movie or not? Our popcorn is getting cold.” Ah, Ned, eyes on the prize. 

Peter rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, hit play, then. I’m going to run to the bathroom really quickly.”

Ned nods, grabbing the remote with a squeal. Peter made his way down the hall to the bathroom, thinking back to the days when wearing socks had him slipping all over the wood floor of the apartment. Now he couldn’t slip if he tried. He chuckles, shutting the bathroom door quietly. He can hear the muffled strains of the Star Wars opening song playing in the living room, loud enough that Peter is sure one of his neighbors will eventually knock on the apartment door and request the volume be lowered. Peter locks the bathroom door with slightly shaky hands. Now that the warmth of laughing with Ned is wearing off, he can feel a chill down his spine.

Leaning over the sink, Peter stares at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t know what is wrong with him today, but his spider-senses will  _ not _ stop acting up. The back of his neck had been prickling, the hair on his arms kept raising, and he was covered in flashes of goose bumps, over and over. The general sense of uneasiness was leaving him feeling drained and tired, and keeping up an act for Ned was getting harder and harder. 

Splashing cold water over his face, Peter takes a deep breath, plastering a smile on his face before opening the bathroom door. Halfway down the hall, Peter hears the front door open and then shut, the jangle of Aunt May’s keys making him wince. Being on edge like this always makes him all the more sensitive to high pitched noises.

“Hey, Aunt May!” He calls, turning to walk through the kitchen to the living room. He stops mid-step, eyes searching May’s face. “What’s wrong?” His asks softly, voice almost covered by the Star Wars opening credits, and Ned humming along in the living room. May swallows, and sets her keys down on the kitchen counter before turning to him. Her face is pale, drawn, her eyes are tired and she looks much older than she is. She nibbled her bottom lip.

“We need to talk, Peter.” Another chill down his spine, goosebumps over his arms. Peter feels himself nod.

“Ah, just a minute.” He leans through the doorway into the living room, “Hey, Ned?” His best friend turns, mouth full of popcorn, an eyebrow raised like,  _ What’s taking you so long? _ “Um, can you pause it for a minute?”

Ned is quick to sense the change of mood.“Sure, what’s up?” 

“Nothing, nothing, just...give me a minute, yeah?” Ned shrugs, “Of course. Take your time, Pete. I’ve got popcorn and facebook,” He holds up his phone with a small smile before crunching on another piece of popcorn. Peter attempts a smile before turning back into the kitchen. May is sitting at the bar, staring at her clasped hands. 

Peter smooths a hand across her shoulders, hugs her to him, “Hey, don’t look so down. Tell me, whats wrong?” May studies his face for a long moment before patting the the seat next to her. “Sit down, Peter.”

Ned knows he shouldn’t eavesdrop. His parents taught him better than that. And Peter is his best friend, his  _ only  _ friend, really, so Ned shouldn’t betray his trust like this. But, Ned was also Peter’s guy in the chair. He wanted to help. And besides, it’s sort of hard to tune Peter and May out.

Ned doesn’t haven’t super-hearing, but with the movie paused, the sudden stillness and silence of the house seems overly much. It isn’t hard to hear Aunt May’s soft voice as she tells Peter to sit down. Ned hears a bar stool being pulled out with a soft creak, and he can hear Peter’s light-footed steps, the swish of his sweat pants, and then the creak of the chair as he sits down. Aunt May sighs.

“My lawyer called today.”

Peter doesn’t say anything, obviously waiting for Aunt May to continue. Ned clicks his phone screen on, bringing up facebook, just in case. 

“She just wanted to check up. Wanted to know how you were doing. That sort of stuff.” Ned knows Aunt May well enough to be able to picture her right now, chair turned towards Peter, eyes earnest and maybe...sad? Her voice sounds sad. 

Another creak, Peter shifting on the stool. He’s waiting. 

With a quick breath, May says, “Skip is up for parole in 3 months, Peter.”

Her voice is soft, calming, measured. Who is Skip? Ned wonders, swiping his thumb across his screen to keep it active. 

“No.” Peter’s voice, loud. “No.” Distraught, now, broken, caught in his chest like he’s trying not to choke. Ned sits up, listening hard. His heart pounds in his chest. 

“Peter -” May starts, trying for soothing again.

“No, Aunt May! No, no, no, no, no,  _ no _ !” A crash, the bar stool falling over?! Footsteps, backwards, and a thud, the sound of someone’s back crashing into a wall (Peter?), the slide of clothes, May pushing her chair back, “Peter,” like coaxing a wild animal into a cage.

“No, I can’t. I can’t again, May, I just can’t. I can’t see him, I can’t know that he - he’s out there! I - I -” A gasp, “Haven’t I suffered  _ enough _ ?” Peter cries, oh god his voice is broken, he’s crying now, heaving breaths and stifled sobs. 

“Oh, baby, baby,” May croons, Ned can hear the floor creak, May sitting down maybe? “Of course, oh baby, you’ve suffered so much more than you should ever have to, oh, Peter.” Her voice is a soft murmur, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.”

Crying. Quiet and then not. This goes on for a few moments. Ned can feel tears in his eyes, he blinks back the soft heat of them and takes a quiet breath.

“Peter, look at me.” May’s voice has a hint of steel in it, of anger, almost.

Silence.

“I promise, I swear on my  _ life _ , Peter, you will NOT have to see him, do you hear me?” There is the sound of her swallowing loudly. “He’s up for parole, that’s it, nothing more. He might not even be let out. And if he is, he’s not allowed to come within 500 feet of you, you know that.”

Peter sniffles, the sound of his hands across his face, wiping tears away. Ned can picture him, watery eyes, pale, mouth pulled in a lopsided facsimile of his usual warm smile.

“Besides, you forgot something.” May says, and there is a smile in her voice, now. 

“What?” Peter’s voice asks, wobbly.

“You, not anybody else, **You** are Spider-Man. You’ve saved the city, hundreds of lives. You’re not the little boy you were then, Peter.” A pause. Ned feels his heart break at the love in her voice. “You’re so unbelievably strong, and you prove that to me each and every single day, not just when you have the mask on, but when you’re just Peter, _my Peter.”_

More silence, sniffles, but then the sound of May pushing herself to her feet, and a moment late, with a grunt, the sound of her pulling Peter to his feet. Through the doorway, Ned can see the edge of May’s elbow as she wraps Peter in a hug. He squeezes back, and she  _ oomphs _ before they both laugh, voices still watery. 

“Now, do you want to go watch your movie, with Ned?” May asks, gently.

“I don’t think so, Aunt May.” Ned can see Peter, the side of his face. The warm lights of the kitchen cast his face in pale shadow, Ned can see a shoulder, hunched in a way that Ned hasn’t seen since before the spider-bite. “Do you think it will hurt his feelings if I just...go lay down for a bit?”

“No, not at all. Ned is one of the nicest boys I have ever met, Peter, and I’ve had the privilege of knowing you.” She strokes a hand down his cheek, brushing her thumb under his eye. “Go lay down,” She smiles, “I’ll bring you some hot chocolate in a little bit, and I’ll send Ned home, okay?” 

“Thanks, Aunt May,” Peter pads softly out of the kitchen and down the hallway, swaying slightly. Ned watches Peter slip through his bedroom door, before it shuts behind him with a  _ click _ . Ned blinks, swallows, wipes at his face to check for stray tears. His phone is forgotten beside him. 

He turns, slowly, Aunt May is leaning against the door jam, her arms wrapped around herself. Her eyes are sad, and Ned pushes himself to his feet, circling the couch and wrapping his arms around her. Bless her, she says nothing for a few long moments, just wraps her arms around him and tucks his face into her shoulder with a warm hand. Ned takes a deep breath; Aunt May smells like cinnamon gum.

Finally, he pulls back, and she sets her hands on his shoulders.

“You heard all of that, huh?” He nods, looks down. She sighs. “Don’t feel bad, Ned. It’s not like we were being all that quiet.” She leads him to the couch, pushes him gently until he sits, and he is grateful for the support because his legs are feeling very numb all of a sudden. They sit in silence a moment.

“I -” Ned starts, pauses. “Who is Skip?” He finally asks, eyes searching her face. May’s lips thin, her eyes shutter, it seems to be a reflex, almost. 

“I don’t...I don’t know if I should tell you, Ned. It’s really Peter’s choice.” Ned nods, doesn’t push, and her eyes dart to  the hall, to Peter’s bedroom door. “But…” Ned looks up. “You boys have been friends for nearly 6 years. And I - I hate to say it, but I need help. The next few months will be hard for Peter, Ned. I need you to help me.” She takes a deep breath, “I need you to help him.” 

She’s so earnest, Ned nods, quickly. His heart feels heavy. Ned feels both very old and very young, right at this moment. He sets his hand on hers, between them.

“You can trust me, Aunt May. I’ll be there for him, no matter what, you know that,”

“I know, Ned.” She smiles, pats his knee, before sobering.

“When Peter’s parents first died, and he first started living with us, we - Ben, Peter, and I, that is, were living in this little tiny house in this dumpy neighborhood, near Flushing. Ben was still working with the local precinct, you know, and he was gone most days and nights. I was working long shifts at the hospital nearby, and Peter...well, Peter was an 8 year old boy in a new neighborhood with a new school, who had just lost his parents.” She looks at their feet. 

“Peter was closed off. He shut everyone out, Ben and myself included. We were worried about him. He hardly talked. Didn’t eat enough. Didn’t play or act like a kid should.” She shakes her head. “But then, one day, a little after Peter turned 9, he suddenly comes home from school laughing and talking. And he is sitting at the dinner table and telling us all about this new friend of his. We were…” She scoffs, “Well, we simply didn’t know what to think. Peter told us that he met him on the school bus and he just moved in down the street, and god, Ned, we were so overjoyed. We thought, you know, this is a turn around for Peter. Things are going to get better. We could be a  _ family _ , now.” She stops, swallows, clears her throat. 

“It took a couple of months, but eventually we learned that Skip was 14. He was a smart boy, kind of awkward, like Peter. He was nice, I met him a couple of times. He didn’t have many friends, either, and he and Peter seemed to get along so well. Peter was so mature for his age, we didn’t think anything of the age gap...maybe we should have, I don’t know.” She tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. 

“Skip taught Peter how to ride his bike, something Ben had never accomplished, though not for lack of trying, Skip got Peter to play in the park and to read comics and, and just be a  _ kid _ , again _. _ There was such life in his eyes all of the time, Ned. We didn’t want it to change.”

Ned can already see where this story is going. He doesn’t like it, not at all. 

“I don’t know, I don’t know when it changed. Peter always got off the bus and went over to Skip’s house, just for a few hours, then would come home for dinner. Never later than 6 o’clock.” She murmurs, nodding gently. “But one day, Peter came home late.  He didn’t want dinner, said he felt sick. He went to bed. And he stayed home from school the next day. He wanted to stay home the next day but he didn’t have a fever and I made him go. I guess he went over to Skip’s after school that day, too, I don’t know. He came home late again. And the next night. And the next. He stopped eating. He lost weight. He stopped sleeping, started having night terrors. He took  _ five _ showers a day.” 

Her voice breaks. “God, we were so blind. Ben was a police officer, you’d think he would see the signs. He blamed himself for years, still did when he died, as far as I know. Peter would ask us to pick him up from school rather than ride the bus and when I could I would, I was worried, but then Skip would come over and ask to see Peter and every day, without fail, we would make Peter go over to Skip Westcott’s house. We thought that Peter trying to avoid Skip was him trying to shut everyone out again.” 

She grabs Ned’s hands in hers, “You have to understand, we just wanted Peter happy. We just wanted him to spend time with a friend.” She’s crying now, tears streaming down her face. Ned is crying too, he realizes, his face hot. 

He leans against her and she says into his shoulder, “This went on for a month, maybe more.” She sniffles. 

“One night, Ben was tired of it, tired of Peter refusing dinner, tired of Peter shutting us out. He sat down with Peter on the couch and said they weren’t moving until Peter told him what was wrong. Ben was stubborn like that. They sat there until two am. And when it finally came out, oh god,” She covers her mouth, sobs. “For weeks... _ nearly a month _ , Skip had been hurting our boy.” 

Ned can feel the tears streaming down his face, now.

“Ben wanted to go over there, wanted to kill him, he had his gun in his hand, I had to talk him down, had to comfort Peter, he was crying under the coffee table, he - he thought Ben was going to arrest him and take him to jail, Skip had been telling Peter that if he told anyone, especially Ben, a police officer, that Peter would be arrested because police officers don’t like tattletales. Peter, my sweet, smart, Peter, he believed him, he thought Ben would send him to jail and he had already lost so much. But Peter has always been a martyr, Ned, he was trying to protect me, also, and even Ben, because he knew we would be alone, he didn’t want that for us.”

They hold each other then, arms wrapped tightly around the other.

The rest of the story comes out, slowly, fragmented. Pulled from May like a splinter.

Skip was arrested the next day. Tried as an adult 3 months later and, with Peter’s tearful testimony, sentenced as guilty, put behind bars for the next 6 years. Ben, May, and Peter moved into the city 3 months later, shortly before Peter’s tenth birthday. 

Within a month, Peter meets a boy named Edward Leeds, nicknamed Ned when he tells Peter he can call him ‘Ed’ and Peter mishears him, and the rest is history. Ben is shot three and a half years later, Peter becomes Spider-Man just a year after that, and now, now Ned is sitting in his best friend’s living room, clinging to his best friend’s Aunt, crying more than he has in years, and Ned can feel the world reorient around him. 

 

Later, after Aunt May walks him to the street and pays for a cab for him - she doesn’t want to leave Peter alone long enough to drive Ned home, he understands, Ned’s phone dings. He blinks, eyes still burning, and he looks from the gray New York skyline to his phone. Soft hispanic music plays on the cab’s radio.

 

From Peter: I do have super hearing, you know.

 

Oh god. Ned feels sick. He types a quick message.

 

To Peter: I’m so sorry, Peter.

 

From Peter: About what

 

To Peter: Everything. 

 

He waits a moment, following up with:  I should have let you tell me. If you ever wanted to, of course.

 

Minutes pass, and Ned feels sicker and sicker. His phone dings.

 

From Peter: It’s okay. Really. 

 

Ned is trying to decide what to respond with when his phone dings again. 

 

From Peter: I was going to tell you. Someday. I didn’t have the courage. I didn’t want you to think I was

 

There is another few moments before the next message comes through.

 

From Peter: Weak.

 

At this, Ned types furiously.

 

To Peter: Never. I could never think you weak, Peter. I swear on my life and Star Wars and all that is holy. You’re the strongest person I know. That will never change. 

 

From Peter: Really

 

To Peter: Yes, really. 

 

From Peter: Thank you, Ned. 

 

To Peter: Hey, I’m your guy in the chair, aren’t I? I’ve always got your back, no matter what.

 

From Peter: <3

 

To Peter: Yeah, yeah, I <3 you too, you goob. 

 

When Ned gets home, he walks to his room, slips on warm sweatpants and a Spider-Man themed shirt, wraps himself in his covers, and thinks about how lucky he is to know Peter Parker. 


	2. Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony discovers this part of Peter's past and is understandably pissed. Angst, comfort, fluff. Basically just my two favorite boys looking out for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who don't know, Skip Westcott is a very real, very canon character in one comic line of Spider-Man. He was in a special edition created to help raise awareness of child abuse, and while no one is quite sure if it is canon in any other Spider-Man universe, I feel like it could happen in the new MCU. In the edition with Skip, Peter helps another kid come to terms with their abuser by telling the story of his own abuse. Obviously, I have taken some creative license with this story, but it achieves the same goals. Let me know what you think!

Peter had been distracted all night. At the moment, he was elbows deep in the guts of an older military drone - unarmed, of course, Tony wasn’t about to give a 15 year old boy access to explosive devices. He was impulsive, but he wasn’t an idiot. Besides, Peter was important to him. Tony didn’t know what he would do if anything happened to the Spiderkid.

Tony would probably have to be forced to admit it, but he was... fond of Peter. More than Mentor/Mentee, though Tony really did try his hardest to stay professional with the kid. Okay, so almost-hugs happened and maybe Tony nagged a little too much, sometimes. But, it was all in the kid’s best interest, really. And  _ okay _ , so maybe Tony had already spoken with the Board of Admission at MIT, and maybe Peter pretty much had a guaranteed spot there, and maybe Tony had spent 34 sleepless hours creating the “Baby Monitor” protocol just to keep the kid as safe as possible, but that didn’t mean  _ anything _ . 

Screw Rhodey and his constant whispers of, “Irondadddd,” whenever Peter and Tony were in the same room together. Tony was simply not dad material, and he probably never would be. But, if he had ever had a son or a daughter, he would have hoped that they would turn out something like Peter. Peter was a good kid, smart as hell, and as pure-hearted as Steve, if not more, honestly. 

Sometimes, Tony would find himself at the receiving end of some barrage of questions or comments from Peter and all Tony could do was smile, nod, and think about the great man Peter would someday be. And if it was slightly embittered by Tony’s memories of his own half-assed fathering, well, that had nothing to do with Peter and everything to do with Tony and Howard. Tony would never be him. 

At the moment, Peter was muttering to himself off and on, usually about the processing system or the circuit board. He was bobbing his head to Tony’s music (Black Sabbath, tonight) and tapping his fingers along the edge of the work desk. He had on a black long sleeve t-shirt that had a sad looking pencil on it with a speech bubble above it’s little eraser head that read, “ _ Everything  _ is the Matter!”. A typical night in the shop. And yet...not typical. 

Tony wasn’t as observant as Nat or Clint, but he knew Peter. He could tell when something was bothering the kid. The past few weeks he had been a little more shut-off, a little quieter. Tonight was no different, worse, actually. First off, Tony could tell Peter was wearing the suit under his clothes. Why? he wasn’t sure, because tonight wasn’t a patrol night. Most worryingly, though, was that every once in awhile, maybe every eight or ten minutes, Peter would just...  _ pause _ whatever he was doing, hands stilling, shoulders going stiff. 

His eyes went sort of hazy and he would just stare off into space for about 30 seconds to a minute at a time. Tony left him to it, at first, didn’t bother him in these moments, but monitored the boy nonetheless. 

After probably the 11th or 12th time, however, Tony set down the gauntlet he had been calibrating and sat back in his seat, his eyes on Peter. Peter’s back was a straight line, tense, and there was a barely discernible quiver every few moments. And then he was loose and supple again, as if it hadn’t even happened, his hands busy once more, muttering under his breath, bobbing his head. 

“Friday,” Tony murmured. 

“Boss?”

“What’s Underoo’s heart rate, right now?” 

There was a pause, then, “46 beats per minute, normal for someone of his abilities.” 

“Noted. Thanks, Friday.”

But ten minutes later, when Peter stiffened a bit and a small screwdriver clattered out of his hands, Tony asked, “Heartrate?”

“212, boss, about 75% of his maximum heart rate.”

Tony whistled, “Jesus, why?”

“Peter seems to be experiencing intermittent panic attacks, boss.”

Tony pushes himself to his feet, crossing the room to Peter’s side.

“Boss, I would advise against touching -”

“Peter,” Tony ignores her, pressing a hand against Peter’s shoulder.

Peter jumps nearly four feet in the air, practically throwing the drone from the table. He spins around, hands raised in front of him and there is  _ crash _ as his lower back slams into the edge of the worktable. His breath leaves him in a painful rush.

Tony winces, “Shit, sorry, Underoo.”

“Don't…” Peter gasps, “Don’t  _ do _ that, Tony,” His pupils are blown wide, and Tony can see his hands shaking. That's the first time Peter has called him Tony rather than Mr. Stark, unprompted. Peter tangles his hands in his hair, pulling on the messy strands in a nervous habit Tony recognizes easily. Peter looks like he is ready to flee.

Tony quickly steps back to give him a bit of space. “Are you doing okay?”

“Huh?” Peter looked up, genuine surprise crossing his face before he took another deep breath. “Oh. Yeah, I just...I’m tired.” He shrugs, looking down, “School, you know.” Tony wants to believe him, but again Peter’s hands tangle in his curls, tugging and twisting for a moment before he sighs and turns around to straighten the drone on the table.

“Yeah, okay, school,” Tony shrugs, accepting it for the time being, he knows better than to push too much. “Whatever you say, Peter.” 

Peter breathes a small sigh of relief, Tony notes, and seems to think this is the end of the conversation, relaxing slightly as he smooths a hand down the metal armour of the drone. Tony sucks on his cheek, “It’s just... You’ve just been sort of distracted lately, Underoo. More than usual.” There’s a long pause. 

“I - I have?” Peter finally asks, voice soft, but trying for nonchalant. Tony notices immediately that Peter still won’t meet his gaze. His eyes are locked on the floor, and then on his hands which he seems to be trying to keep from shaking, still smoothing them over drone’s back panels.

Tony rocks backwards on his heels, thinking. He turns and crosses to the other side of the room to make himself a cup of much needed coffee. He takes a moment to compose himself, smoothing a thumb over the ‘brew’ button on the espresso machine.

“Yup, been real out of it. You know, zoning, zilched, whatever you kids say nowadays,” Tony calls over his shoulder as he places a mug under the machine.

“Oh.” Peter’s voice is shaky, but what really tips Tony off is, again, his lack of constant chatter. In a normal nervous situation, Peter fills the awkward silences with odd ramblings and anxious coughs, and he might stutter, but his voice is never shaky like this. 

When Happy had dropped Peter off a few hours ago, he had been frowning, and didn’t leave until he had sidled up to Tony’s side to mutter, “He’s quiet, today,” under his breath. At the time, Tony had shrugged it off, thinking the kid was just distracted with school or something that happened on patrol, but this was starting to seem like so much more than that.

“Been sleeping lately?” He asks, finally, watching the coffee stream into the mug with a  _ hisssss _ .

“Huh?”

“Sleep? Have you been getting any? Spiderlings still need sleep last I checked.” Peter takes a moment to respond.

“Oh, oh yeah, I’ve been sleeping.”

“Enough?”

Peter shrugs. Tony sighs, wipes a hand over his face with a slow blink. Collecting the steaming coffee mug, he sits down in his chair, downing a burning gulp of the fragrant brew before setting the coffee mug down on his desk with a  _ clink _ . He rolls over to where Peter is still leaning against the work table, hunched over as if he is trying to disappear into himself. 

“Nightmares?” Tony asks softly, picking up a wrench from the table and turning it over in his hands. 

“Sometimes…” Peter mumbles, scuffing his foot against the ground.

“Well, spill.” Tony says, setting the wrench down on the table.

Peter looks up quickly, eyes wide. Tony bites his tongue,  _ idiot _ . 

“I mean, if you want to, of course.” He adds quickly, shrugging, “I may not always seem like the best listener, but I’m always an open ear for you, ” Tony shrugs again, trying to seem casual, scratching at his goatee with a grease stained hand.

Peter seems to think for a moment, taking a deep breath and then pausing, looking down again, biting his bottom lip. 

Tony frowns, “I mean, I get it, that Vulture guy was...hardcore, anyone would come away from that with nightmares,” Tony realizes it was the wrong thing to say as soon as he says it, although he isn’t quite sure what about it is wrong. But the damage is done. Peter clams up, shuts down, and turns back to the drone.

“Yeah, he was pretty scary.” Is all he says, about 30 seconds later, and he doesn’t speak another word the rest of the night. Tony curses internally, but gives him his space.

When Happy comes to collect him, it’s nearing eleven o’clock. Peter simply waves as he walks from the workshop, a flash of red against his wrist reminding Tony of the suit under his clothes. Tony sighs, collapsing in his chair, the force pushing it back a few feet.

“Friday?”

“Yes, Boss?”

“Keep an eye on him, yeah?” 

“Of course, and I’ll let Karen know.”

“Yeah, do that,” Tony mutters, before pushing himself to his feet. “I need more coffee.”

It’s not until a month and half later that things come to a head. Tony has only seen Peter five times in the past six weeks, and just for a few hours at a time. Only two of their evenings spent together had Peter actually laughed, chatted, and overall been his usual, puppy-dog eyed self. 

The other three times were stilted, awkward occasions, with Tony trying to push Peter to chat at first before fading to Tony just watching Peter with concern in his eyes. Karen reported that Peter was wearing the suit almost every day, all day, even at school, and that Peter was having intermittent panic attacks several times a day, but they never seemed to escalate past a minute or two of zoning out with an accelerated heart rate. Thankfully, Peter always seemed to snap himself out of it and move on pretty quickly. What really stumped Tony was that the Vulture was nearly 9 months ago, but these panic attacks had just started in the past 2 months, about. 

Obviously, anxiety and stress disorders could develop at any time, but were usually triggered by something. So, what was causing them? Tony couldn’t hardly get a hand on his own issues, helping a struggling teen was something he definitely wasn’t prepared for. Rhodey sent him some links to a few articles, one of them titled, “How to Parent a Troubled Teen”. Tony had closed out of that one in disgust. 

Pepper just told Tony to be there for him, but to give him space, and when Peter was ready, he would come to him. Tony wasn’t so sure about that. What if Peter never trusted him enough to talk to him? Tony pretended that thought didn’t sting. It hurt his heart to see Peter so withdrawn, so jumpy, and he just wanted the old Peter back.

Tonight is a good night, so far. Peter is in the shop, still in uniform, fairly animated. His mask was thrown onto Tony’s rolling chair as soon as he came through the shop door, his hair wild and curling around his ears. His face was flushed with excitement as he chattered. 

At the moment he was leaping from one side of the couch to the other, trying to play four separate parts in a skit of a mugging he had stopped just a few hours earlier.

“And then, he was like, ‘Hey, get out of here,’ and I was like, ‘No can do, dudes, this isn’t cool,’ and then the second guy was like, ‘Maybe we should go, I’ve seen this guy all over the news, he’s tough,’ and I was like, ‘Heck yeah I am, don’t push me, and -” Every time the mugger spoke, Peter lowered his voice to a raspy growl. 

It was approaching close to midnight, and Tony had been nursing a headache all day. He hated to be down on the kid when he was actually in a good mood, but Tony just wanted to get some rest, and he didn’t want May calling him to chew him out since Peter had school in the morning. Sometimes May was as terrifying as Pepper and Nat combined. 

“Peter.” 

“Yeah, Mr. Stark?” Peter asked, practically upside down on the couch back.

Tony pointed at the workbench in front of him. “Sit.”

Peter sighed, “Yeah, okay.” He vaulted the couch in one smooth movement, crossing the room and sitting with a smirk. He wiggled his rear, smiling, “Happy, now?”

“I’ll be happier once we get your suit patched up so you can go home and we can both get some sleep.” He answered, already fixated on the tear right along Peter’s ribs. Tony could practically hear Peter roll his eyes.

“Oh, come on, Mr. Stark, you can sleep when you’re dead.” Peter laughed. Tony stood up, leveling Peter with a gaze. Underoo blushed, coughing a little before adding,“Or, I mean...that’s what everyone at my school is saying.” 

Tony fought a smile, “Yeah, well, unfortunately for them, you  _ will  _ die if you don’t sleep. That’s kind of the whole point.” Ironic, because Tony never got enough sleep, but that wasn’t relevant to a rapidly growing super-powered spider teen.

Peter huffed, leaning back on his hands, his dangling legs kicking back and forth, back and forth, narrowly missing Tony from where he stood between Peter’s knees. “I know that.”

“Okay, well then will you please sit still so I can fix your suit?” 

Peter shrugged, his legs slowing to a complete halt. 

“Finally, thank you.” 

Tony bent down again, breath puffing against Peter’s shoulder and collarbone. He was focused, gaze fixated on the tear of the suit that ran from under Peter’s right bicep and around to right above his navel. He had hoped this would be a simple patch, something he could just plaster the nanobots over and let them repair in about 15 minutes but already he could see that this wasn't just a rip in the surface fabric but the micro weave underneath was slashed to bits, also. 

How Peter had walked away from this fight with little more than an already fading, pale pink scratch was astounding. Contemplating the length of the tear, Tony realized he might have to just confiscate the suit for a day or two and repair it then.

As he leaned closer, his right hand came up to land on Peter’s thigh, about four inches below his hip, keeping him from falling forward and into Peter. It was reflex, completely automatic. It didn't matter. The damage was done. 

He hadn’t noticed that Peter had frozen, his whole body tense, shaking, nearly vibrating. His pupils blew out so his eyes were pitch black. Within moments his breath was coming in heavy gasps, and now he was hyperventilating, oh god, his hand, his hand, please, not again, nononononononono. Peter's heart skipped a dozen beats and then started into a rapid fire staccato beat, so fast that Peter felt immediately light headed.

Everything zeroed in to the hand on his thigh. Nothing else existed. He couldn’t, not again, not Mr. Stark, but no it wasn’t Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark would never hurt him, it was Skip, Skip was here, leaning over him, his hand creeping up Peter’s inner thigh, his breath ghosting against Peter’s ear and neck. His tongue along Peter's collarbone. 

Peter was small, so small, the older boy dwarfed him. He was in Skip’s basement, the worn green couch with the broken spring against his back, Skip’s parents were just upstairs, why didn't, no, why  _ couldn't _ he call for help? Why was Peter’s voice gone, he didn't understand what was happening, why was his friend doing this to him?  _ Please _ , no, he just wanted to play legos, no, no, no. No. No!

Peter didn’t know how it happened but one moment he was sitting on the bench with Mr. Stark way into his space and his hand on his thigh and then the next he was curled in the very back corner of the lab, tucked between a large toolbox and Dum-E, rocking back and forth, hot tears running down his face. 

Mr. Stark was a good 15 feet away, a stunned look on his face, as he pushed himself up from the ground. He had a small gash at the top of his forehead, blood trickling over his temple and cheek. Oh god, what did Peter  _ do _ ? He could have killed Mr. Stark. 

Mr. Stark would never talk to him again, Peter would never be allowed over again, Mr. Stark was going to take the suit oh god, then Peter would have nothing to protect himself, he would just be Peter and Peter wasn't brave, Peter was a coward who couldn't fight back. Peter was  **useless** .

Tony shook his head, a hand coming up to press at the gash before he winced and looked around. His eyes landed on Peter.

Peter pushed himself back into the corner as far as he could go. Dum-E’s claw patted his head gently and he nearly lashed out again, just barely holding himself in check, another broken sob bubbling up and out of his mouth. Oh god. Peter bit his fist, just shut up, don't cry. Skip always liked it when you cried, he - he - he got off on it, you have to be brave, Peter, be a big boy.

“Be a big boy, Peter, be a big boy,” he murmured, tucking his face into his knees.

Mr. Stark had come a bit closer now, slowly, both hands up, as if to show he had no weapons on him, but it didn't matter, his hands were weapons, anybody's hands could be weapons, Peter would never be safe. Mr. Stark was saying something, his mouth was moving, but Peter didn't know what he was saying. Probably that he was going to call the police, or that Peter was crazy.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Stark,” he sobbed, “I’m sorry, I'm so sorry, just please don't hurt me. Please,  _ Please _ , don't hurt me,” He gagged, was he going to throw up? But No, just memories, always memories. “I want to go home,” Peter's vision was distorted, was he really crying that much? 

He blinked, rubbing his face against his knees, against the familiar red of the suit. Suddenly, Mr. Stark was in front of him. About five feet away, thankfully, sitting on the ground, his pose eerily similar to Peter's, legs folded up and chin perched on his knees. He was watching Peter, expression unreadable. He seemed to be studying Peter. Minutes passed, and when nothing happened, Peter's breath came a little easier.

Finally, Mr. Stark said, “I'm sorry, Peter,”

What was he apologizing for? Mr. Stark didn't do anything, Peter did, Peter is always the one at fault, always. Skip made sure he knew that. He'd forgotten the past few years, had the gall to feel like maybe he could so something with his life, help people, but let's face it, Peter was dirty, corrupt. 

He was contaminated and all he ever did was hurt people. He hurt Liz. He hurt Aunt May, always shutting her out. He hurt Mr. Stark, a man who had been nothing but kind to him, given him a suit and helped him out, no matter how ungrateful Peter was. He didn't deserve any kindness. 

Mr. Stark was still studying him, eyes serious, but not unkind, not yet. Soon, he would see how fucked up Peter was and leave him.

“I'm not going to hurt you, Peter.” Peter didn't move, just watched Tony warily. “I could never hurt you, not purposely. I'm sorry, I'm not sure what I did, but I swear it was an accident. I'm so sorry.”

Peter didn't respond. 

“I -” Tony stopped, sighed, ran a hand over his face. He scooted half a foot closer.  Peter watched him warily. Tony could tell by now this definitely wasn't related to the Vulture. This went further back than that. How far, Tony wasn't sure. He tried again.

“Peter...Underoo...I really am sorry. Please, just talk to me.” A minute passed.

“You didn’t hurt me. I hurt  _ you _ .” It was said so softly, Tony almost didn't hear him. 

“Huh? Oh, this?” Tony asked, motioning to his head, where the bleeding has all but stopped, drying in ugly patterns along the skin. “This is nothing, kid, you didn't mean to. Besides, I've had way worse, trust me.” 

“I hurt you.” Once more, just a whisper.

“I know you, Peter, just an accident.” Peter is shaking his head now, “No! It doesn't matter, I hurt you! I hurt you, I hurt everyone, all I do is hurt people! I'm - I never do anything but hurt -” he breaks off into another sob, pressing his cheek against his knee hard enough that his check goes white and bloodless. 

“No, Peter, no. You've never hurt me before. You don't hurt anyone, why would you say that?” 

“I hurt May, I kept secrets, being Spider-Man. I hurt Uncle Ben, he  _ died _ because of me, I made him sad and angry, I hurt him over and over,” Peter sobs again, biting his tongue until blood is dripping out of his mouth. “I hurt Liz, and her mom and her Dad; I hurt Skip and his parents, I ruined his life, I had to be a baby and tell and I ruined his life and he told me not to tell, he _ trusted _ me and I ruined his life, oh god,” Peter slams his head against the concrete wall behind him, once, twice, again and again.

“Hey!” Tony is leaping forward in a second, wrapping his arms around Peter and pulling him away from the wall. Peter struggles, screams, scratches, hits, Tony doesn't let go, just wraps the boy - his boy, in his arms, pressing his lips to his hair.

They rock, back and forth, and eventually, Peter goes limp, crying, tears streaking down his face, his eyes are burning, his whole body feels like it's been reduced to ashes and moving might as well be climbing Mount Everest.

“Peter, you listen to me.”

Peter holds his breath a moment.

“You have brought  _ nothing _ but happiness into my life, you hear me? I've been a miserable, self destructive mess for more years than I'd like to admit and you have done nothing but help me. Nothing. Every fucking time you're on patrol, I'm terrified for you, because if anything happened to you I would have to personally find and do tenfold to whoever hurt you as what they did to you, do you understand?” Peter has the energy to nod.

“I can't speak for everyone, okay, but I know for a fucking  _ fact _ that your Aunt May would say the same thing. I'm so sorry that Ben died, it never should have happened, but I can tell you right now, his death was in no way your fault, Peter. After his death, May was in a bad place, and you brought her out of that, only you.” Tony shakes his head, “Now, I don't know about Liz, but her Dad made his own choices. If anyone is to blame, it's him, and he will have to deal with that for the rest of his life, but you cannot blame yourself for someone else's wrongdoings.”

Peter sniffles, closes his eyes.

“I, I don't know who this Skip person is, or his family but I really doubt that what you're saying is true, I really doubt you ruined his life,”

“It’s true, I did, I ruined his life,” Peter repeats, voice watery. Tony scoffs.

“How?”

“I got him sent to jail,” Peter whimpered, sniffling again.

“Wha -  _ why _ ?”

“‘Cause I told on him.” Peter sounds much younger than he is.

“Told on him about what?” Peter sniffles again, Tony squeezes him a bit, “Told on him about what, Peter?” He coaxes.

“That...that he was doing bad things to me…” He whispers, finally, “That he was touching me and - and  _ hurting _ me and making me do things to him,” Peter whimpers, sounding like he is about to start crying again. Tony hopes to whatever controls this godforsaken world that he hallucinated and Peter didn't just say what Tony thought he said.

“Peter.” His voice is hard. Peter presses his face into the crook of Tony’s neck and shoulder and shakes his head minutely. Tony realizes he is squeezing much to tightly, forces himself to ease up a bit, forces himself to take a deep breath before asking, “When did this happen, Peter?” His voice could cut steel.

“W-when I was 9. He…he was 14. Skip was my  _ friend _ .” He shakes his head, “I thought he was my friend.” Peter finishes quietly 

Tony feels tears prickle in the back of his eyes, god, why is he just now learning about this? How did this escape his discovery until just now?

“And he's in jail?” He finally asks, voice measured. Peter tears up again.

“Yes, but he is up for parole next month,” Peter says softly, defeated sounding. So, that's why Peter has been so distracted lately.

Tony tucks Peter's head under his chin, “I'm so sorry, Peter, you - god, I -” He sighs, lost for words. Peter pulls back a bit, looks up at him, so earnest, eyes red and swollen.

“You - you really aren't mad at me? Or...or disgusted with me?”

“Mad?! Disgusted? Oh God, Peter no! Never! That, what happened to you, that's not your fault, you were just a kid! You're still just a kid! That bastard, the one that hurt you, he is the one that deserves disgust, deserves anger. Peter, if I could, I would destroy anyone who ever thought of harming a hair on your head, honest. It sort of scares me sometimes, how much I care about you.”

“Oh.”

Tony coughs, “I don't know if you've noticed kid, but I don't really do close relationships.” Peter laughs the smallest bit, just a puff of air between partially open lips, really. But it's a start. Tony would bring down the moon if it would bring a smile to Peter's lips, ten thousand times over. Peter hugs him, all fear of his mentor and friend gone, before pulling back and smiling, just a little.

“Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Anytime, Underoo, anytime.”

 

He drives Peter home himself, sees him to the door, explains to May what happened once Peter is curled up in his bed, hugs her with tears in both their eyes. He drives home, his car strangely silent, just the hum of the motor and Tony’s too loud thoughts.

By the time he pulls into his garage and shuts off the engine, listening to it tick tick tick as it cools down, he's decided one thing: whatever happens, that bastard isn't getting parole, ever. No one hurts his kid and gets away with it. No one.


	3. MJ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gets some news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, this chapter was tricky to write, maybe because MJ is just such a sassy character and I don't feel like I did her justice at all, but it's okay, at least I got it done. I might change it a bit later, sorry for the wait! Thanks so much!

MJ was _trying_ to focus on her book. It was a good book, better than most the filth in the school library, with no ridiculous love interests or cliches, just one badass bitch trying to figure out her life. Quality literature, obviously. Unfortunately for her, she happened to attend the same school as the biggest double dweebs in the **history** of the world. And today, also unfortunately for one Michelle Jones, and for them, they were being dweebier than usual.

Why she chose to sit next to them day in and day out, as Ned chewed way louder than he needed to on his typical carrot sticks and PB&J, trying to ‘eat healthy’, but sneaking cookies under the table, and Peter literally scarfed down a bird seed looking protein bar and four sandwiches, she didn’t know. Were they all friends? Kind of? MJ wasn’t really sure where they all stood on that point, but that wasn’t because Peter and Ned were hesitant, but because _she_ was.

Either way, most lunches she could either zone them out or pretend she was zoning them out, all the while listening with rapt attention to whatever misadventure the spiderdweeb had gotten into last night. Honestly, it was concerning just how reckless Peter was, some days he showed up to school limping like a three legged giraffe. MJ would watch him all day, trying to fight the urge to leap forward and offer herself as a human crutch. And then, around lunchtime, MJ got to hear something horrible, like, ‘Oh, don’t worry Ned, the guy only hit me with his axe _three_ times, and shattered my kneecap a _little_ bit’ or some stupid ass shit like that.

Honestly, MJ wasn’t sure how Peter was even still _alive._ Okay, that was a horrible thing to say. Sorry, Peter.

It's just...MJ knew for a fact that Peter had nearly died at _least_ 4 or 5 times in the past 10 months, starting with that Vulture guy. So sue her if she cares and doesn't want the only decent guy at Midtown Tech, hell, in New York state, to die an early and tragic death.

MJ sighed, turning a page in her book before realizing she hadn’t read a single word on it. She flipped back and glanced over to the spiderdweeb and company. What were they _doing?_ Michelle didn’t like it when they actually talked too softly for her to hear, made her feel left out, even if they didn’t know she was usually listening.

Peter had came into school today looking relatively unhurt, but white as a sheet. Ned had immediately glued himself to Peter’s side, fending off even Flash with such a dark look that Flash still looked shaken even to this moment, sitting at his stupid round lunch table in the far corner of the cafeteria.

Peter, for all of his dweebiness, hadn’t raised a hand in a single class, and when he was even called on in Molecular Biology that morning, he had just wrapped his arms around himself and shook his head softly, staring at his desktop.

For the classes Ned and Peter had together, Ned always sat next to Peter, but today, he scooted his chair just a little bit closer than usual. And for the classes that Peter and Ned didn’t have together, such as Molecular Biology just thirty minutes ago, literally as soon as the bell rang, Ned was at the classroom door, glomped to Peter’s side like a - a - a dweeby barnacle or something. Michelle watched Ned squeeze Peter’s shoulder not even five feet away from her, but Peter didn’t seem to notice, just sat with his arms wrapped around himself, staring at his phone where it lay on the lunch table in front of him.

Michelle surreptitiously check the date on her own watch: October 14th, nothing special going on today to Michelle’s knowledge. She knew Peter's parents and Uncle had died, but neither of those dates were in October, she was pretty sure.

The bell rang, surprising MJ enough that she actually jumped for the first time in her school-aged life. Trying to hide the jolt as a cough, she placed her bookmark between the pages of her book and slowly stood, stretching slightly, keeping an eye on Peter and Ned. As they stood, she heard Ned ask, “What time is it supposed to be at?”

Peter just shook his head, morose as a teen can be without looking like a Van Gogh painting, honestly, and murmured, “I don’t know, Aunt May just said sometime this afternoon. Depends on how fast the Judge is working.”

MJ’s eyebrows lifted in her hairline, but she merely dumped her tray in the trashcan and followed Ned and Peter down the hall to Peter’s next class, which also happened to be hers, as well. Ned had to go to Advanced Computer Mechanics, she remembered. MJ paused, curious as to why and when she had memorized Peter and Ned’s schedules, what the fuck. Ned and Peter paused outside the classroom door, honestly being ridiculously rude and severely blocking the flow of students into the classroom, but at another surprisingly murderous glare from Ned, everyone shut up and trickled into the classroom slowly, muttering dying down.

Ned set a hand on Peter’s shoulder, frowning, “I wish I could stick around, Peter,” Peter shook his head, braved a small smile, but even from across the hall, MJ could see that it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll be alright. I’ll text you if I need you, okay?” Ned just nodded, lips thinning, before he pulled Peter into a quick one-sided hug and disappeared into the crowd of student still milling about.

Peter looked lost for a moment, his phone still in his hand, before he pocketed it and slipped into the classroom. MJ followed a moment later, making her way to her seat behind Peter, slightly catty corner. Don’t worry Ned, I’ll keep an eye on him MJ promised, though she still wasn’t sure what was big enough to bring Spider-Man, brave Peter Parker, who laughed off shattered kneecaps and broken collarbones, to his knees.

 

The first ten minutes of class were just a monotonous droning about last week’s assignment, and Peter checked his phone at _least_ 23 times. Every time Peter checked and seemed to get no response, he got more flustered. By the end of ten minutes, Peter’s hands were fisted in his hair, his face white as a sheet once more, and his breath was coming in uneven pants. The teacher hadn't noticed yet, thank god, but other students were starting to look at him oddly.

MJ crumpled a small piece of paper and tossed it at him. It tapped Peter right on the back of the head and he flipped around so fast, he might as well have been a blur. A few other students looked over at that, and she shot them a death glare. They turned their gazes back to the teacher quickly, all at once. MJ rolled her eyes, looking to Peter. She mimed a hand across her throat, _cut it out_. Not that MJ actually meant for Peter to stop being nervous or whatever was going on, but he needed to tone it down a bit.

A second later she realized how insensitive that was and she winced, but Peter had already turned back around, obviously trying to be a little more composed. His hands were twisted together so tightly that they were white and dead looking.

Suddenly, the smallest chime. The whole room froze, and their teacher, Mr. Ursine, turned around so slowly that MJ could hear his vertebrae creaking.

“Who,” he hissed, “Has a phone on?” Mr. Ursine’s policy on phones was deadly. At the very least, you lost your phone for the day and got detention for a month. At the most, MJ had heard one time he torched a kids phone over a bunsen burner, like a marshmallow over a campfire.

All eyes flew to Peter, who was hyperventilating, but not because of Mr.Ursine. Actually, he didn’t even seem to register Mr.Ursine looking at him; but because his phone was in his hand and he was reading something on the screen and suddenly, Peter was standing so quickly that his chair fell back with a loud clatter, and everyone jumped. Mr. Ursine’s face was turning tomato red. Never a good sign. But Peter didn’t seem to care, as he was out of the door in probably about .5 seconds. It was impressive, really. Also incredibly concerning.

Mr. Ursine looked like a blood vessel had just popped as the object of his anger disappeared before he could _make_ it the object of his anger and actually start yelling. MJ took a second to think and then was up too, pushing her chair back with a loud screech. All eyes flew to her.

“Ah, um, lady issues!” She shouted, darting from the room as quickly as her Doc Martens could carry her, hearing an eruption of laughter and shouts from Mr.Ursine to PIPE DOWN, behind her. She was sooo getting in trouble for this.

It didn’t matter, though, ahead of her, Peter was all the way down the hall, disappearing around the corner. MJ broke into a jog, trying to catch up, turning the corner just in time to see Peter disappear through the one broken fire exit in the school. The smokers, both of cigarettes and other substances, used this exit to sneak a smoke in between classes. She pushed the door open, let it creak shut behind her.

MJ stopped for a second, trying to catch her breath. Her ears caught what sounded like a sob. She turned. Ah, there he was, one crying spider dweeb, curled up against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, a familiar pose for any angsty teen, really. MJ herself assumed that pose when she was sure school would be the death of her. Judging by the sheer volume of Peter’s sobs, however, this seemed much worse than MJ’s usual existential crisis.

She sucked in a breath, blew it out through clenched teeth. Shit, MJ didn’t... _do_ feelings. She avoided them, as much as possible. Some would say she was emotionally constipated, MJ would say she was allergic to tears and stress. _So_ bad for the skin, anyways. However, Ned was in Advanced Computer Mechanics, and she, one Michelle Jones, was here. And...while MJ wasn't exactly sure what crazy thoughts went through her head to make her follow Peter out here, she knew right then that she wanted to be viewed as a friend, like she viewed Peter.

MJ pressed her back against the absolutely filthy brick wall, oh she liked this shirt, shit, and slid down until she was sitting beside Peter. He didn’t look up, just sidled another two inches to the right, as if trying to give her room. Right, spider sense, or whatever. Probably came in handy when a halfway friend stalks you out to an alleyway behind your school.

She waited a moment, biting her lip. What exactly did one _say_ when feeling were involved? She coughed, licked her lips, “Um, you okay?” Stupid. Stupid. Oh my god, she was so stupid. Of _course_ he wasn’t okay, he was sitting in an alleyway crying and shaking like a leaf, Michelle, you’re an idiot.

“Not really,” Peter croaked, and she froze. Oh, he actually answered. Okay, shit, what does she say next?

“Why?” Shit, that was blunt. Michelle mentally facepalmed, took a deep breath, “I mean, what’s wrong?” Peter took a shuddery breath.

“I don’t know if I should be happy or sad.”

“In general? Or about something specific.” Peter laughs, a dry laugh, one that makes MJ cringe.

“Oh, definitely something specific.”

“Okayyy,” she stretched out, trying to think, but surprisingly, while MJ’s brain was usually going ten million directions at once, right now it was all at a dead stop, radio silence. “Well, um, is somebody dead?” Peter blinked, rapidly.

“No?”

“Why did that sound like a question?”

“It didn’t,”

“Yes, it did.”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Yes it -” MJ sighs, and though she is agnostic at the very most, looks to the sky in a desperate plea for help against one stubborn spider teen. “Okay, it doesn’t matter, nobody’s dead, that’s good. Is anybody hurt?”

“Kind of?” This one was obviously a question, oh my god, feelings or not, MJ was going to kill Peter. This should go on her college resume, ‘emotional negotiations with Spider-Man’.

“Did you personally hurt them?”

“I - I don’t know,” Peter shakes his head, “Mr. Stark says I didn’t, but I don’t know. When you spend so many years believing something, it’s sort of hard to just switch your view, just like that,” MJ could get that, it took her a long time to stop being mad at her Mom after her parent’s divorce.

“Does this have anything to do with Spider-Man?” Peter does a double take, staring at her with wide, wet eyes before just sighing.

“I’m actually not that surprised that you know about that. But no, it...it has nothing to do with Spider-Man. Actually it...it’s from way before Spider-Man.”

MJ doesn’t say anything, she once read a book that said if you needed someone to elaborate on something, don’t respond, and they usually explain further.

“I -” Peter sighs, wipes his hands on his jean legs, closes his eyes, says hesitantly, “I just found out that the man who...hurt me, when I was a child, didn’t make parole today, and I don't know how to feel about it.”

MJ blinks. Blinks again. What the fuck. Holy shit, okay, Peter needs a response, what do you say MJ, what do you say, think of something. “I’m sorry,” is all that escapes her lips, after 20 seconds, and shit okay that wasn't enough, MJ this is why you have no friends.

But Peter just smiles at her, eyes still watery looking, “Thank you,” and while it is still far from Peter's usual spark, MJ will happily take it.

“Do - Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don't know.” Peter bites on his thumb nail, glancing at her through his lashes. “I feel like I've been talking about it an awful lot lately. I used to act like it never happened but...maybe that's not the best,” He looks at her, as if for advice and she nods quickly.

“I mean, yeah, healing and all that,” She supplies lamely. Oh my god, Michelle, next career day you should check into the table for 'worst advice giver ever'.

Peter watches her, suddenly wary, “Will you promise not to judge me?” For a moment, MJ is angry, hurt that Peter doesn’t trust her, but quickly realizes she _is_ pretty critical of everything and everyone. Peter’s fears are justified, which honestly kind of sucks, and makes MJ's face flush.

“I promise,” She says, solemnly, never breaking eye contact.

Peter holds her gaze for a few long moments, his eyes intense. Finally, he shrugs, looking away as he says, “There really isn't that much to it. I shouldn't be as caught up about it as I am, honestly. I just… I had this friend. Except, I guess he wasn't really a friend.” He laughs, but it’s choked sounding. “Mr. Stark says he wasn’t even close to a friend. I was 9 and he was this older kid that lived down the street from me...and I didn't have many friends back then,” MJ scoffs, she can't help it. Peter looks her, surprise evident on his face.

“I’m sorry, I just... that's hard to imagine. Are you and Ned dweebs? Yes. But you guys are also the sweetest people I've ever met. I know Flash gives you a hard time but you have more friends than you think you do, really, so a cute little kid Peter, with no friends? I honestly can't imagine it.”

Peter's voice borders between sarcastic and hurt when he says, “Thanks, MJ, your belief in me is fricking great,” and MJ cringes, but then he sighs, “No, really, that actually does make me feel a little better, but it's true, I didn't have any friends. New school; young, nerdy me. Wasn't exactly a good mix.” He pushes his hair back from his forehead, twisting his fingers through the stands before leaning back against the wall, his legs finally unfolding from the defensive position he had been in. “Besides, this was just a bit after I moved in with Aunt May and Uncle Ben. I was...depressed, I guess?” One shoulder lifts, he lets it fall.

“Oh,” Is all MJ can say. Been there, done that. Still there, sometimes, really. Peter laughs, sniffles, turns his head to look at her from where it rests on the wall.

“I like to believe I'm better now. I guess I am, in a lot of ways. I mean, I'm not _just_ a depressed little kid who just lost his parents, anymore, at least. I'm a slightly bigger kid who lost his parents, an uncle, is a superhero-in-training, has minor PTSD _from_ being a superhero-in-training, _and_ the SAT to study for." MJ almost laughs at that. And,  _of course_ , I have so many other issues that I have been ignoring all these years. I've started to realize that bottling things up doesn't help anyone, even if it is easier.”

“I'm the fucking queen of bottling things up.” MJ blurts, then blinks. She didn't mean to say that. “So, yeah, you don’t have to tell me twice how much it can mess with your mind.” Peter nods, and sets a soft hand on her arm. Why the hell is he comforting her, when this is about him? She forces herself not to shrug his hand off, anyways. “So...friend that wasn't a friend?”

MJ isn't an idiot, and she usually thinks the worst of people and ends up being right, unfortunately, but honest to god she is expecting something about bullying to come out of Peter's mouth, although why that would lead to jail and parole and all of that, she didn't really know.

So when he says, “Skip...Skip was 14, a lot bigger than me. He...he molested me, I guess?” in his soft, still-a-kid voice, MJ’s heart drops through the floor.

Peter is still talking, the words rolling off his tongue like oil, now, and MJ realizes that maybe if he stops talking he won't be able to tell her, at all. She doesn't know, but part of her wants him to stop.

“Skip made me do things to him, touch him and take off my clothes. He said we were playing doctor, at first, and then things just escalated. I didn't know what was going on. After the first time, he stopped trying to lie and play it off as a game, he would just command me to do something and I did it. I was too afraid to lose his friendship, and he told me I would go to jail if I told anyone, and I don't know, I just got caught in a web,” He laughs then, as if his accidental pun erases the horror of what he just told her. MJ might throw up.

Her voice shakes when she asks, “He didn't...didn't…?” She can't say it.

“Rape me?” The words sound fake coming from Peter’s mouth. He sounds like he is going to cry.

She nods.

“ _Honestly?_ I... don't know.” His legs curl up again, and he holds them tightly to his chest. “Pathetic, isn't it?" No, never, MJ could never see Peter as anything but amazing. "I can't even remember exactly what happened. Parts of it, yeah, they are fucking crystal clear, as if they just happened yesterday, and I can't help but relive them over and over on bad days. But, other parts are just hazy or sort of fade in and out. I saw a child psychiatrist after the first court appointment. I saw a lot of doctors, actually. They called it ‘dissociative amnesia’. Apparently it's pretty common in child abuse cases.”

Peter is shaking like a leaf, his fingers white from where they grip his shins. MJ scoots an inch closer, slowly. “Maybe if I had told Aunt May and Uncle Ben right away what was happening, I could have gone to a medical doctor, been checked out. I guess then I would know for sure.” Peter’s hands curl into fists. “Sometimes...sometimes I think he must have, MJ,” Her name on his lips shocks her into reality, Peter is really telling her all of this. “I have these nightmares, from time to time, and they're so fucking real, but my psychiatrist told me sometimes people fill in blank spots with almost worse memories than actually happened and I shouldn't trust those dreams, just in case.” The side of his fist hits the ground, with a soft thud.  “I just want to know. I don't understand, if I can't trust myself then who can I trust?” Tears trickle down his cheeks.

“Me.”

Peter's head flies up. His eyes are dark and wet. He looks at her, just looks at her, for a long time.

“Okay,” He finally murmurs, nodding. This time, MJ has absolutely no apprehensions when she wraps him in a hug.

He is warm, and real, and alive, and she tells him all of this against the crook of his neck. He smells like rain and aloe vera lotion. He's better than his past, has such a bright future.

She hugs him and tells him how proud he makes her, squeezes him as tightly as she can, as if she can put together all of his broken pieces with the force of her embrace. And if MJ presses a kiss to his temple when the bell rings and they part ways, well, no one has to know.


End file.
